


Live-learned

by Zelos



Series: The Burial of the Guns [1]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: 5 Things, Aftermath, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Loss of Innocence, after the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five lessons they learned that will never make it into Jake’s memoir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live-learned

_1\. You will miss the war._

 

That was an odd truth. They sacrificed everything to end the war: blood, tears, comrades, their own humanity—all for peace and freedom, for mundane reality, for everyone to shout their own misguided opinions and tell their boring stories and work their 9 – 5 as a cog in the machine. That had been the whole _point_ —to _end_ the war.

But it was true. And it was why, he and Cassie both knew, that he leapt at the chance to do it again, why it was a lifeline for him, why Marco could instantly tell he was spoiling for a fight, all so he could feel alive long enough to stop remembering.

There was something very _uniting_ about the horrors of war, for all that he wanted a peaceful life shooting hoops with Tom and eating dinner with his parents. The solidarity between soldiers (because that was what they were), the common purpose and drive, the unshakeable bond between allies.

The rush of battle, the exhilaration of being alive, the singing adrenaline of combat, walking away to survive, to fight, another day.

During the war, people _died_. But the deaths registered _after_ the war, little tearing hooks of loss and grief. Before then, you could pretend you weren’t losing yourself, you weren’t losing them, that _everyone_ was here and safe and _alive_.

_We need you, Jake._

He needed to be needed, too much so.

After the war, the glue that held them together crumbled, leaving only the doubts and wavering that never existed in the heat of battle. Second-guessing a choice. Making a bad call. Strategy failed, assets lost, alliances broken. Life-and-death decisions riding on a hair. His call.

Maybe that was why Rachel loved the battle so much—when under fire, with enemies pressing in at all sides, it left no time and room for doubt. He was _envious_ of her, in a sick, twisted way, and disgusted with himself for feeling such, but it was true all the same: she left in a blaze of glory, with victory in sight. She didn't have to deal with the aftermath, face the verbal firing squad, didn't have to watch them mourn. Didn't have to face Tobias, his parents, feel the hollow, crushing hugs, read the long list of names of those missing and dead.

(At least Rachel had a body to bury; Tom never even had that. He'd died a slave trapped in a snake's body. All they had of him were memories. Knowing he'd been a Controller for so long...well, even pictures were hollow.)

After the war, things were never the same. The people, the life that you fought and bled and sacrificed to save, would never _be_ the same. He was a hero, a god, and all he ever wanted to be was a kid who didn’t flunk algebra and would make the basketball team like Tom.

He would take a lifetime of obscurity, for no one to acknowledge the sacrifices they made, if it would bring Rachel back. Bring Tom back. Tobias. Erek.

_I hope I have done my best._

It wasn’t enough.

 

_2\. It is hard to stop measuring lives._

 

Marco never looked for Nora, after the war. He could have. He has the means to. Had he so much as said the word the entirety of America would have combed the streets 24/7 until the woman was found. It wouldn’t have taken long. Two hours, tops.

He never did. Avoided thinking about her at all. There were shows to attend, Taxxons to relocate, interviews to be conducted. Nora was just another name on the long, long list of people they’d failed.

Rachel. Tobias. Erek. Tom. James, Collette, the rest of the auxiliaries. Naomi and Dan. Jara. She was only one step above the nameless, faceless people, human and alien alike, who’d gotten slaughtered in this galactic carnage. Marco did not have guilt enough to spare.

Others didn’t necessarily feel the same way.

“Marco? What happened to...” his father took a deep breath to steady himself; even then, his voice cracked a little. Eva put her hand on his. “What happened to Nora? Do you know?”

Marco froze in the middle of demolishing his steak, but then collected himself. Set down his silverware. Took a deep, careful breath.

“She’s...dead, Dad. I heard she was in the Yeerk Pool when we...” He trailed off, winced at the stricken look on his father’s face. “Sorry. I know you...”

Peter shook his head, squeezed Eva’s hand. “No. Not your fault. I mean, I knew... I hoped...but...” His voice broke completely; he wiped his eyes. Steadied himself with another drawn breath. “Honestly, you two...were more than I expected to survive. I’m...lucky.”

Eva shot Marco a look. Marco could lie with the best of them, could bullshit politicians in his sleep. But much of him was from his mother, and between genetic knowledge and politicking in Yeerk courts, his mother was not so easily fooled. But—even so—she looked like she didn’t really want to know.

Marco never looked for Nora. _She_ found _him_. Easy enough to, after the war. A little harder to actually meet him, but she managed.

Flight out three days later. Europe. Name change, stack of cash, anything she wanted. Just not Peter. Not his father. His family.

“ _I want to see him,” she said bitterly, her voice like broken glass._

“ _You can't. And even if you could, what would you achieve? He won’t come back to you. Even if he does, the guilt would kill him. You married him, you_ know _.”_

_Nora looked like she was about to cry. Or hit him. “I loved—love—your father.”_

“ _I know. I’m sorry.”_

No one knew. Not Jake, or Cassie, or any of the others. Marco even put up a little inscription for her, at the memorial for those who’d died. But nothing else. _The Gorilla Speaks_ did not mention her (though to be fair, he left a lot out of that book). No one else really knew, or cared, all too busy with their own losses.

Gone. Erased.

Marco tried to smile; it twisted oddly on his face. He’d lost his appetite. They all did.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said again, and really, he was.

Jake sacrificed Tom, and Rachel, and 17,000 Yeerks for the sake of humanity.

He just sacrificed Nora for his mother.

 

_3\. Allies and enemies are but a thin line apart._

 

She ran into him in a grocery store, of all places. Buying kibble, probably for the dogs.

“Erek!” she blurted.

He looked at her, paused for half a moment. “Hello, Cassie.”

Then the air shimmered around them and she saw his android form as Erek extended his hologram around them—a gesture of, if not friendship, at least not open animosity. They hadn’t told anyone about the Chee, and people—Andalites and humans alike—were only all too happy to accept their glossed-over explanations. Erek could have simply played the awe-struck teenager and no one would be the wiser. Instead, he’d chosen to...say hello. As himself.

“Hello, Erek,” she said uselessly, because she has no idea what else to say.

“Cassie,” and that had a pale shadow of his old warmth. “How have you been?”

Cassie didn’t know how to answer the question at first. The Chee knew everything. Surely they knew about her work and Ronnie and all that. That couldn’t be what he was asking.

“Busy,” she finally said. “How are you? The Chee? The dogs?”

“Same old,” except it wasn’t, because how could it be the same when the Yeerks had gone?

“Good,” she replied. Same empty response.

Erek cocked his head, hesitated. “How...how are they?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, suddenly on the brink of tears. Why would he ask? Rachel, a martyr, died a hero’s death. Jake, a brittle shadow, choked with bitterness and regret. Tobias had disappeared, with only the hawk left. Marco, glamour and wealth and utterly hollow. Ax...who knew?

“You know,” she finally said softly. They, of all people, would.

Erek nodded. She has no doubt that the Chee had kept an eye out on the remaining Animorphs, those that could be found. She looked down at her hands, holding a bag of apples, suddenly seeing the red ghosts that she'd thought she'd put to rest.

“You were the best of us, Erek,” she blurted out. Because he _was—_ he didn't stoop to disgusting, evil measures to win a war (that they _had_ to win). It was unfair that the Animorphs gotten the accolades and glory despite the blood on their hands. Aftran, Mr. Tidwell, Arbron, Jara, James and the others...they all deserved so much more, so much better than what they got.

Erek turned his head. She was no good at recognizing expressions from the android face, but she thought it seemed bitter. Or rueful. Pained, whichever way.

“Or maybe just a coward that relied on others to do the dirty work, instead of bringing about the changes myself.” That was very soft.

That cut her to the core, even though Erek did not mean such. “You were the best of us,” she insisted, and painfully thought of Rachel, brave and ruthless and fiercely loyal. “Force in the name of justice is still violence, and we shouldn’t have asked—” threatened “—that of you.”

“No, you shouldn't have,” he agreed, but that rang hollow instead of angry. He put his paw on her shoulder, let it slip off as he backed away. “Live long and prosper, Cassie. All of you.” The hologram flashed back into place; a slightly shorter version of Jake, strong and confident—and, at that moment, looking as worn as Jake himself. “You've earned that much.”

She didn’t have the heart, or chance, to tell him that they were all beyond saving.

 

_4\. You will never (get to) say goodbye._

 

He wouldn't have gone for anyone else, now that Rachel was gone. Not for Jake, Marco, or Cassie. Maybe not even for Toby. But this was Ax. _Ax_. His _shorm_ , his uncle, his best friend. _Family_.

He went.

Ax's liaison ship was parked unceremoniously in the ruins of their mall, surrounded by dirt and debris. He'd taken a trip with it somewhere, far south, before moving it back to the ruins of their hometown. Any minute now, they'd leave; it was odd that they hadn't left already.

This departure was far less dramatic than Rachel's; the only people there gawking were those who lived close enough to notice the ship. Andalites had their pomp and ceremony, in spades, but usually not with aliens. The others were not there, thank god, likely having said their farewells already.

Visser—no, _Alloran_ was standing outside the ship, looking this way and that, his expression—if he was any judge—a little bewildered, and more than a little sick at the destruction.

Ax was beside the older Andalite, also searching the surroundings, but he looked...anxious. Expectant. Hopeful.

Best not to disappoint—him, at least. <Ax-man.>

Ax's stalk eyes swung up to spot him, floating half a mile up in the sky. With anyone else it'd have been impossible to see, but not with hawk eyes: the subtle, slightly sad, Andalite smile, which was all in the eyes. <Tobias.>

He didn't know what to say. _See ya_ sounded way too flip, and way too like Marco; anything else seemed far too solemn, when Ax would assuredly return...even if it would not be any time soon.

He briefly wondered if he'd still be human enough to care, by then.

<Later, Ax-man,> he settled, because he couldn't say _goodbye_ , goodbyes were _permanent_ , and maybe he could hold onto hope that someone he loved would not end up leaving (that he would get to leave _them_ first).

Elfangor, dying on tarmac and concrete, the father he never knew, his alien voice filled with desperation and quiet grief that he did not understand then.

Loren, kind and battered and mind utterly blank, a mother who'd never remember her child. Who cared, certainly, but never in quite the right way, and he'd never get to know what happened between Elfangor and she. (He'd left her; she'd left him _first_.)

Rachel, beautiful, deadly, dangerous Rachel, the anchor to whatever little humanity he has left—laughing that wild, giddy Rachel laugh, spiralling on the thermals with him. Jake, Big Jake, serious leader Jake, sending her off to die at that last moment: <Rachel...go.> Cassie and Marco, under the spotlights, bleached white smiles and prime-time interviews. Erek, slipping away, hologram fooling even the Andalites, never to be seen again.

The hawk—if he could have understood strategy and war—would not have blamed them, would have understood the ruthlessness, kill-or-be-killed. And for all that he was more hawk than boy, it was the _boy_ who did not care about reason: he hated them all, loved them more, for this terrible burden that they shared, the reins of war Elfangor had given them in a desperate attempt to save their world.

<Later, Tobias,> Ax called back to him, the colloquialism awkward in his Andalite voice; Tobias caught a gentle thermal and flew away, a red-tail hawk's scream echoing in the morning air.

 

_5\. There is no such thing as a hero._

 

<Congratulations,> Alloran said to him suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Ax glanced at him oddly with one stalk eye. He had stopped by to visit Alloran during his leave, as was his custom; the two Andalites were grazing in the hills close to Alloran’s scoop. They generally spoke little during this time, content to while away the hours in silence; when they did, they usually spoke of the past—Elfangor, Hork-Bajir, the Animorphs. Distant, faraway things, not the immediate, and certainly not congratulations.

<For what?> he asked.

<I saw you with the young female after your ceremony. I remembered seeing her from...before.> Alloran paused, a brief shadow flickering across his features at the mention of Earth. <You two seemed to know each other.>

<Oh. Estrid.> Estrid had came up to him after he was sworn in—officially—as a prince and full warrior, and showered with the accolades and honours the people determined he’d earned from his fight on Earth. <You watched the broadcast.>

Alloran gave him a half-smile, and did not acknowledge the truth they both knew: a pariah has no place at a celebration of heroes. <She must think of you as quite the hero.>

Ax thought back to Earth, to the beginnings of the Yeerk-Andalite war, to many, many bloody battles, the evil decisions in the pursuit of good.

Rachel, beautiful and ruthless and deadly, laughing triumphantly as she reduced many a Controller to broken sacks of meat.

Arbron, more monster than Andalite, chewing noisily at a dying Hork-Bajir, fighting his brothers for every bite. The air rang, a cacophony of screams.

Alloran, on the Hork-Bajir homeworld, surrounded by dying and dead, Andalites and Hork-Bajir and Controllers alike. The air smelled of desperation and death, of bitterness and defeat.

Arbat, screaming in rage and pain and fear at the Yeerk Pool, left to die by a fellow Andalite.

The terrible darkness in Jake’s voice, when he’d ordered 17,000 Yeerks to their dooms; the frozen bodies, a field of death in space.

David, his long, wailing <Nooooooooo!> following them, forever a vermin, left to die.

Erek, the fury in his voice as they blackmailed him to harm, the one thing he’d sworn to never do again.

The auxiliary Animorphs, sent to die, burned to nothingness with General Doubleday’s men. Sacrificed, for a mere moment of distraction, hard-won and paid in blood.

Elfangor, the great hero, the legend, a mutineer and deserter, left his friend to die a monster and his prince as a slave; ran away, as the galaxy warred in his wake.

And himself, piloting the human fighter, the primitive nuclear weapon, ready and willing to sacrifice thousands to save billions more. The same thing Alloran did. The same thing he condemned Estrid for. The same thing that, despite everything, the Andalite fleet was ready and willing to do, in the end.

Ax did not (have the chance to) actually speak to Estrid after the oath and ceremony. But he remembered seeing her. Estrid had looked at him—not with awe and worship as every other Andalite female there, but with _pride_.

<She does,> Ax allowed. <Perhaps...that is the problem.> At Alloran’s questioning look he said, heavily, <there are...no heroes. Only monsters who fought on the right side.>

Alloran rocked back as if Ax’d hit him. But, Ax noted, he did not disagree.


End file.
